


Sometimes it's the Little Things in Life (that make you who you are)

by charlatanauthor



Series: the dynamic duo [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Not Canon Compliant, So I gave it to him, bucky deserved better, mmmmmmm love this trope in case you can't tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 13:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlatanauthor/pseuds/charlatanauthor
Summary: The first and only objective pounding through the asset’s mind is to run.Fleeing a site post-mission is not unusual, it knows – it believes, the asset corrects, it never knows – yet a self-report returned a heightened heartrate, a trembling in the limbs.Adrenaline response. Fear.The asset feels as though it is familiar with fear, but it has no memory of it, just flashes of pain and punishment and recalibration and –Disobedience.(When the asset escapes HYDRA's clutches after the incident on the helicarriers, it encounters a man who helps treat its wounds and rediscover its humanity. Two years later, Bucky and Steve reunite after Steve can't help but stick his beak of a nose into things. Together, they make the perfect team to take down HYDRA.)





	Sometimes it's the Little Things in Life (that make you who you are)

The first and only objective pounding through the asset’s mind is to _run._

Fleeing a site post-mission is not unusual, it knows – it believes, the asset corrects, it never _knows_ – yet a self-report returned a still-heightened heartrate, a trembling in the limbs.

Adrenaline response. _Fear._

The asset feels as though it is familiar with fear, but it has no memory of it, just flashes of _pain_ and _punishment_ and _recalibration_ and –

_Disobedience._

The arm hangs limply at its side, unmoving since its impact with the water, weighing the asset down alongside the many injuries the asset accrued during its fight with the few remaining agents still loyal to SHIELD on the helicarriers and the spiderling. They had managed to fight it to the edge, the spiderling scoring some beautiful shots that the partially-destroyed body armor hadn’t been able to cover, when the winged one pulled him off, dropping it into the river below.

The asset had _failed._

Failure meant _pain. Fear._

And so it _ran._

Or it hobbles, at least, the shot that the widow had landed in its thigh making it difficult for the asset to achieve the smooth gait that it needed very desperately to effectively disguise itself as a civilian in the near-deserted streets. Appearing out of place means being caught, and that is something that the asset _does not want_.

It believes that the proper name for the emotion is want, at least.

Changing out of its soaked tac gear would help significantly with its objective, so it ducked into an abandoned clothing shop – its employees likely fled home during the disaster– to obtain a change of clothes.

“Hey!” yells a deep voice. Male.

It draws its sidearm at the sound and turns towards the source. Even with the arm disabled and multiple bullet wounds, the asset is still _functional_ and _will not go back to his handler._

Instead of a hander, though, there is a tiny blond man, shaking with anger but unarmed and untrained. Not a threat and clearly not HYDRA, but still an unknown variable. A possible threat to the success of the objective should he raise an alarm, but the asset could easily silence him should it become necessary – the asset can hear the man’s wheezing breaths. Asthma. Easy to asphyxiate and frame as an attack. A shame that a man so beautiful -

As though he is unaware of the danger he is in, the man stomps up, wrapping a delicate hand around the arm – flesh, not metal – that the asset had successfully pulled through a sleeve. Upon closer inspection, his eyes are full of… disapproval?

“You can’t take those!” The asset cocks his head, confused. Does the man expect to _stop_ the asset?

“You are unable to defeat me.”  The man’s brow furrows, and the asset abruptly notices how blue his eyes are. The asset is unsure as to why it notices this. The man looks like he’s about to begin to rant when the asset’s injuries catch his eye. Looking down, it realizes that it had irritated one of the wounds while changing, and it had begun to bleed again, staining the shirt he had been pulling on. The man’s face morphs into an odd mix of concern and outright suspicion, the two waring on his face as he searches the asset’s eyes. For what, the asset does not know. The man’s stare is deep enough that he could be looking for the asset’s very soul.

That would be unfortunate, the asset supposes. There would be nothing to find.

The asset is a weapon, a rifle to be pointed, and weapons have no will of their own; it is only logical that the asset possesses no more soul than the knives it works with. Still, it complies with the search, standing stock-still so as to not evoke any negative response, metal arm still hidden within the confines on the shirt it had been pulling on.

After one minute and fifty-seven seconds have elapsed, the man pulls back from where he had leaned towards the asset and throws one final glance over the entirety of the asset, nodding and mumbling to himself as he does. The asset hears most of it – the man has decided to help it – but waits for the man to announce his decision. Normal men would not have heard his words, and the asset will not squander the trust it had somehow gained from the man’s examination. The man takes a shaky breath in.

“You’re right, but I can see it in your eyes that you don’t want to. I have a feeling that you’re in way over your head here.” The asset nods. In a way, it is.

“I’m guessing from those wounds that you were somehow involved with the helicarrier attacks as well, right?” The asset nods again, the arm recalibrating under the shirt. Perhaps it had misjudged the man’s goodwill.

The man glances down towards where the arm is hidden behind the shirt but makes no action to attack or call for help. Perhaps not.

“I don’t know what your involvement is with the situation is, but the fact that you haven’t pulled a gun on me means a lot.” The man shrugs his shoulders. “As much as I hate it, I know I’m an easy target, ‘specially for a guy as big as you. That you haven’t attacked me speaks volumes about the type of man you are.

“And there’s that look in your eye, like a cry for help.” The man’s fists clench at his sides, but the asset does not believe the anger is directed towards it. “I may not know which side you’re on, but I can damn well be sure that wherever you were, you weren’t there willingly. And that’s, that’s …that’s just unacceptable.”

The asset is not sure what the man means by ‘unacceptable’. Is it not normal that a weapon be used by whoever owns it?

  _But the asset is running anyway._

“So I’m willing to help in any way I can.”

The asset nods again, a new feeling welling up in its chest. The man is willing to help the asset with its primary mission, even when the asset has shown no indication of a method of repayment.

The asset believes this is _gratitude_. It has not had reason to feel this way in its entire existence, yet it _knows_ from the very core of its being that that is what the feeling is. It grabs onto the man’s shirt, willing him to know what the asset is feeling, but the man misunderstands the gesture, believing it to be a request for comfort.

“I would hug you,” he chuckles awkwardly, “but you’re a little bloody right now. Let’s get you back to my apartment to get you patched up – I’m going to assume I can’t take you to a hospital, so it’ll be easier to treat you there.” The man offers his shoulder as if he could support the weight of the asset during the trip there. It would be ridiculous, such a fragile man attempting to help carry the asset, had it not been a kindness the asset had never known. The asset loops his one arm outside the shirt around the man’s shoulder regardless, leaning into the touch, and the man smiles at it as they begin to walk.

His smile is the most beautiful thing the asset has ever seen, and it is all the asset thinks about on the way to the apartment. What is pain to this man’s smile?

 They eventually make their way back to the man’s apartment, the asset groaning as the man releases him onto a couch in the tiny living room. It smells like the man does, like mint and paint. The asset is somehow pleased by this, and it closes its eyes while the man goes to fetch a med kit.

How, in such a short time, did the asset learn to trust like this?

The asset does not care, reveling in its new feelings as the man instructs him to take off the shirt. It complies, revealing the wounds it had acquired during the fight on the helicarriers and by falling into the river. There are several broken bones (it catalogues a shattered collar bone, multiple cracked ribs, and a fractured tibia that needs to be set), but most important are the gunshot wounds the man is looking at with wide eyes. Imagine if the man had seen his wounds when they were fresh, before the asset’s advanced healing made them appear hours rather than minutes old.

“Oh, god,” the man breathes. “Thank the lord my mother was a nurse – there’s no way I’d be able to treat those with a basic first aid kit.” The man turns to look at the asset’s face again, eyes filled with sadness. “How were you able to walk here? You should have been doubled over in pain!”

The asset shrugs. It has sustained worse, though not by much. That thought must appear on the asset’s face because the man eyes become impossibly sadder, almost mourning, before he takes a deep, shuddering breath and retrieves some antiseptic from the kit.

“This is going to sting a little, alright? I have a bit of anesthetic in the kit, but I’d prefer to disinfect these as soon as possible. Is that okay?”

“Both the antiseptic and anesthetic are unnecessary. I cannot sustain an infection, and I metabolize anesthetics too quickly for them to be infected. It is better that you just go on and remove the bullets as quickly as possible,” the asset replies.

The man briefly appears furious – a small part of the asset rejoices that the man feels anger on the asset’s part – before visibly calming himself, taking out the tweezers.

“I’m sorry for that,” the man says. “Would you like me to talk you through it to distract you, at least?”

“Yes,” the asset responds. It hopes it does not sound as desperate as it is.

“Alright,” the man says, nodding, “then lay down and I’ll make sure to tell you far too much about myself while we do this.”

The asset lays down, grimacing at the pain. Such expression would not normally be allowed, but the asset thinks the man would encourage such as thing. The thought makes the asset feel _grateful_ again.

The asset feels the tweezer enter the first wound on its abdomen when the man asks, “What’s your name?”

The asset tenses. What is it supposed to tell the man? That it has no name but those in rumors, that it is a weapon that is just learning to be human again?

The man must sense the asset’s discomfort and chuckles awkwardly.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to tell me. I mean, I haven’t told you mine either. It’s Steve, by the way. Steve Rogers.”

 _Steve Rogers_ , the asset repeats in its mind. _Steve Rogers_ is the name of the man that is all the good in the asset’s world.

“I was born and raised in Brooklyn. It was always just my ma and I, and I was always sick growing up. Born way too early, the doctors said. That’s why I’ve stayed as small as I am – not for lack of trying to change, though.”

There’s a pause as the man removes the first bullet that almost shocks the asset, enraptured by Steve’s words. The tweezers enter the second wound.

“Despite that, I was always getting into fights. I can’t stand bullies or anyone that knocks down someone else for fun.” There’s an accent edging into Steve’s words that the asset somehow knows is _Brooklyn_. It is unsure why it knows this, but something about it is comforting. Home-like, though the asset has never known a home outside a cryogenic tube.

“Ma got on me for it, but I could tell she was secretly proud.” Steve’s expression sobers as he pulls out the second bloody bullet and begins on the third and final gunshot wound, an old pain made new. “At least she was, until she died. I was sixteen when she got sick – cancer, they told me, and there wasn’t anything I could do but listen to her last wishes for me.” Steve’s voice is becoming choked up. “She refused to let me use the money she had saved for a college fund for her treatment, told me that she wanted to me to pursue my dreams and that she wasn’t going to get in the way of that. She died when I was seventeen.”

The despair in Steve’s voice makes the asset want to grab Steve and hold him tight, its wounds be damned. It tries but Steve’s gentle hand pushes it back down. The asset only goes because of the grateful smile on Steve’s face at the attempt.

“It’s alright now. Sure, it still hurts, but it’s in the past now. Thanks to her, I was able to get into art school and become a painter like I had always wanted. Now, every time I paint, I know I’m making her proud, and that helps.” Steve pulls out the final bullets and begins to dress the wounds. He looks at the asset and smiles again – a small, fragile, _beautiful_ thing, sad but genuine. He applies bandages to all of the asset’s wound and the asset leans into his hands – slightly cold but so _kind_ that any hurt the asset may feel is banished by warmth. It nearly cries out when Steve pulls away, straightening up and beginning to pack away the med kit, so it grabs Steve’s arm as if to stop him.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” the asset says. And it is, it truly is – and that’s empathy, isn’t it?

Steve smiles kindly.

 “Don’t be,” he consoles. “I told you, she lives on in every painting I create and every good deed I do. She’s here right now as I help you. Sure, maybe not physically, but she’s here in every way that matters.”

The absolute sincerity in Steve's voice makes the asset _feel_ so much, emotions near overflow. As they begin to boil over, one thought resonates through its mind.

_It is not anyone’s asset any longer._

The revelation so stunning yet so _true_ that words begin to pour out of the asset’s mouth of their own accord, a steady stream of _humanity_ that the asset – _he –_ had never known that he possessed.

“I- I do not know who I am. I was the asset, a weapon to be pointed, but-” he hesitates, frightened but determined, “but I do not think I am that any longer.” Steve flinches at the implications behind his words but moves in closer anyway, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“The asset had no name, so I do not have a name either. I have no memories, just missions and training. My entire existence that I can recall is a cryogenic tube, a mission, and the malfunction that caused me to meet you.” Steve bristles at the word malfunction, but he has to continue, has to let Steve know so that even if he forgets Steve does not.

“I am new, not a person yet but not a thing to be controlled, either. Not anymore.”  The words are cold, emotionless despite their power as he falls partially into the asset’s mindset.

He will kill anyone who attempts to return him to nothingness.

That thought causes the ice-cold shock of reality to set in fully once again – HYDRA will not take his departure kindly. They send scores upon scores of men to retrieve him, no matter the cost.

They will kill Steve, should they find out he helped him.

He cannot let that happen.

Steve notices his change is attitude immediately.

“I’m guessing that’s not going to go over well with whoever made you that way, is it.”

“No. They will try to recover me and kill anyone and everyone who might have helped me hide,” he says. No need to blunt the truth.

“I don’t suppose I can fight them?” Steve asks. He laughs a little – of course, Steve would suggest that before the obvious option – but there’s bitterness beneath the humor.

“No. They’re willing to do whatever it takes to get me back. Nothing is off-limits.”

Steve looks as though he’s willing to fight anyway and god, how did he find someone so _good_ by chance?

 “I’m guessing this is goodbye, then?” The dejected acceptance in Steve’s tone made his chest ache, but the feeling solidified his resolve – _nothing_ could happen to Steve, not ever. He would never forgive himself if Steve were hurt by HYDRA because of him. He’ll tear HYDRA to pieces before that happens.

He can’t bring himself to speak, though, so he just nods. At that, Steve runs across the room, wrapping him in a quick hug. Warmth bubbles in him and its bittersweet, this feeling, but he settles on enjoying how Steve’s boney arms dig into his sides because it means that someone in his life cares for him.

This embrace will be his reminder of that, a memory to be treasured. He never wants it to end.

Steve pulls away first, smiling.

“People don’t just come from nowhere, you know. Promise me you’ll find yourself and stay safe while you do it. Maybe when can meet again someday?”

“I can’t promise anything, but I can try,” he responds with a hint of sass.

“That’s good enough, I guess.”

He turns to the door but as he’s turning the doorknob, Steve speaks up, voice soft and heavy.

“My mom would be proud of your bravery too, you know.”

He throws a grateful smile over his shoulder at Steve even as a tear slips down his face.

“Thank you.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It’s two years later when he sees Steve on the television while in a pub in Seattle.

He’d kept his promise, pursuing any and all leads towards his identity as he hid from HYDRA, and over the course of two years put together his own past and identity as best he could from incomplete files and disjointed memories.

He’d discovered his name was James Buchanan Barnes and that he was born on March 10th, 1917, making him 97 years old.  He was Jewish and had two younger sisters, Becca and Margie, who were the origin of his nickname, ‘Bucky’. He’d served in the army as the leader of an elite but highly classified group of men known as the Howling Commandos during the Second World War and gained a reputation of being the best sniper in the Western Theater. He’d fought HYDRA, then, having found out about them after being experimented upon by Arnim Zola.

He’d fallen off a train in pursuit of the doctor but survived.

HYDRA had found him lying there in the freezing snow of the Alps half-dead with a mangled arm.

The rest was history: conditioning, torture, missions. He’d made dozens of kills in the name of HYDRA, murdered innocent bystanders. Despite everything, the guilt still ate at him.

To avenge them, he’d started going after the remaining HYDRA cells, hence why he was back in the States – there was an admittedly small base nearby that he had wanted to take down.

That did not explain why _Steve_ was on the news. He decided to search – perhaps it wasn’t Steve.

When the results loaded he damn near crushed his phone.

Steve – Steve, who had had the audacity to tell him to stay safe from HYDRA – had been attacked in his home. A robbery, the report said, but with possible motivations in that Steve had been studying the leaked SHIELD files as well as several others when he was attacked.

The bastard was _looking_ for HYDRA and HYDRA considered him enough of a threat to respond. That meant that he had done _thorough_ research, which Bucky was 100% sure he had started the moment Bucky had left his apartment and right after Bucky had told him that HYDRA would _kill_ him.

Because he was a kind, stubborn bastard like that.

A further scroll through the report said that he wasn’t injured – it was mainly that Steve had, over the last two years, made a name for himself as a painter that he was even on the news to begin with.

Which of course meant that he was still in danger.

The next tab Bucky opens is one to buy a plane ticket to Washington, D.C.

They’re overdue for a reunion anyway.

…

The taxi drive from the airport to Steve’s apartment is an incredibly tense one. While it’s undeniable that Steve was clearly fond of Bucky and supportive of his decision, that was before Steve knew who (or rather what) Bucky had been.

Will he hate Bucky now that he knows of the blood that stains Bucky’s hands?

Bucky stands outside of Steve’s apartment for five minutes, worried.  Steve is the one thing in his memories that is completely and utterly _good_ , unspoiled by time or HYDRA. If Steve were to hate Bucky, an entire pillar of Bucky’s emotional stability would crumble.

He’s about to turn away when Steve’s door opens and Steve himself runs smack into Bucky’s chest.

“Hey, you’re standing outside of my apart-“ Steve visibly cuts himself off as he stares at Bucky, eyes the size of saucers. He’s still so beautiful that Bucky has to shake himself before he can say anything.

“May I come in?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods so quickly Bucky’s briefly worried about his neck before eagerly ushering Bucky inside and closing the door behind him. Once the door is closed, though, neither of them seem to know what to say and instead stare at each other awkwardly. Bucky decides that since he’s the visitor, he should likely say something first.

“Hey, Steve. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Bucky asks, unable to stop a small smile from crossing his face. Despite having only known Steve for a short time, Bucky had missed him with an aching longing.

Steve snaps out of whatever trance he was in.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it has been. You look a lot better.”

Bucky chuckles. “Not like I had just fallen 400 feet into a river after been shot several times, you mean?”

“You know what I meant, jerk,” Steve says. “But seriously, you do look better. I can see it in your eyes and on your face. You’ve found yourself, James.”

Bucky smiles in a way he hasn’t in a long, long time. “It’s Bucky, actually.” Steve cracks a smirk.

“Bucky, huh?” There’s that hint of sass that Bucky had sensed when they met, and Bucky feels his smile widen in response. God, he _missed_ Steve.

“That’s me, punk. Got a problem with it?” Bucky can’t help the humor that leaks into his voice. Steve begins to genuinely laugh and Bucky can’t help but join, anxiety fleeing in the face of Steve’s good mood. It’s not even that funny, Bucky knows, but

“Jus’ a bit weird is all,” Steve says between giggles. “Never known a Bucky before.”

“You do now, pal.” Steve’s smirk morphs into a genuine smile, filled with pride. Two years haven’t changed how beautiful his smile is.

Bucky wants to kiss it a little, but he forces himself to focus. He refuses to let his burgeoning little crush on Steve (that he’s had for two years, jesus) distract him from the fact that the punk is gonna get himself _killed_ if Bucky doesn’t step in. God, the thought of it both pisses him off and terrifies him.

Steve must sense the shift in mood because his expression sobers.

“I’m guessing you’re not here to celebrate rediscovering your identity, are you?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“No, this is about you getting way over head with HYDRA.” Steve didn’t even have the good sense to look guilty, just crosses his spindly arms across his chest and gets the same look in his eye as he got two years ago when he asked if he could _fight_ HYDRA for a man he barely knew. Does Steve even know the _danger_ that’s he’s in?

“I couldn’t just stand by, Bucky, not once I knew about them and what they did to you. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did.” Steve says firmly.

So _yes_ , he does know – he just thinks that his overwhelming sense of right will win the day, no matter the odds.

Bucky would be flattered if it didn’t mean _near certain death._

“You should’ve just stayed out of it. HYDRA’s just too big and too dangerous for any one man to take on. Men with far more resources and experience have tried to take them down and guess where they are? Six feet under!” Bucky’s near shouting now, mind spiraling through all of the blood HYDRA spilled, made _him_ spill. “A failed break-in is considered lottery-winning luck with them! I understand that you can’t stand bullies, but this isn’t something that you can just lose a back-alley brawl to and walk away from. You – “

“Got involved as soon as I made the decision to pick you up off the street.” Steve says, the calm in his voice belying the steel underneath.

“I made my choice as soon as I brought you back to my apartment, Bucky. From that point on, I had a target painted on my back waiting to be revealed as soon as they figured out who helped you escape them.”

Bucky flinches, opening his mouth to apologize, but Steve cuts him off. “Don’t you sorry me, James Buchanan Barnes, I don’t have a single damn regret. Helping you out is the best thing I’ve ever done in my life – and this is my life, so however many risks I take are all my own. Chasing after HYDRA through their files was the _least_ I could do.”

Steve has a good point, Bucky knows, but that doesn’t stop the rising panic of _Steve in danger_. He gulps in deep breaths, hoping to calm down enough to speak, but his lungs a _che._ Steve must notice Bucky’s panic because the anger disappears from his face like a fire extinguished - concern coming in to take its place – and walks over to Bucky to hug him tightly, head tucked into Bucky’s shoulder while he rubs his hand up and down Bucky’s shaking back. It’s comforting, a steady rock against the flood of Bucky’s rising panic. Bucky clings on, trying to ride it out.

When he can finally speak again, he motions for Steve to remove his head from where it had ended up in the crook of Bucky’s neck so he could look Steve in the eyes. Steve takes this as an invitation to speak again.

“Does my decision really upset you that much?” Steve asks softly. Bucky sucks in a deep breath, nodding.

“I know too well what they do to people like you, and I can’t stand the idea of that happening. You not only saved my life but _me_ as well – without you, I probably would have forever remained an asset. An asset without an owner, yes, but not a person. It was your kindness that allowed me to know human emotions again, so the thought that something would happen to a man as good as you when it was my fault you got involved…” Bucky can’t bear to finish the thought, but Steve seems to have gotten the message.

“Like I said, Bucky, I don’t regret what I did. If I had the opportunity to do it again, I would, even knowing the possible consequences.”

“Even if those possible consequences mean never being safe until HYDRA is wiped off the planet?” Bucky asks, quiet but incredulous.

“Even then.” Steve cracks an ironic little smile. “If anything, though, I was helping to protect myself with my investigation. All my research went public so that HYDRA could be wiped out.”

Bucky can’t help feel a spot of pride for him mixed with the absolute amazement at Steve’s stupidity and the small part of him that says _well, in a way that’s actually helpful, Bucky had used those files to fill the gaps in is his memory–_

Shut up, part. Steve is still technically in danger.

“So you were that anonymous source online?” Bucky asks. Steve shrugs.

“One of them. One of the Avengers, the Black Widow, did the initial. I just added whatever I could find from there.”

Ah yes, Bucky remembers, the Black Widow is the one who shot him on the helicarriers. He had trained her an eternity ago and remembering the growth she exhibited during the fight on the helicarrier creates a second feeling of misplace pride.

He really needs to get his emotions straight, but he figures that in order to do that he needs to be straight with Steve.

“I… may have used those to take down HYDRA bases while on the run. Possibly.”  Steve’s brow furrows.

“Wait, those were you? And you have the gall to be mad at me for posting files anonymously online?” Bucky puts his hands up in a _whoa, hey there_ gesture.

“ _I_ have seventy years’ worth of training and experience. You can’t even breathe right, let alone hold your own against a STRIKE team’s worth of HYDRA agents. There’s a difference here.” Steve looks a little insulted, but Bucky isn’t going to back down on this. It’s one thing for Steve to claim posting the files was his own ‘informed’ decision, it’s another for him to claim their level of risk was the same.

“You just admitted that you needed the files I provided in order to find those bases, though. I’m willing to bet HYDRA rarely if _ever_ sent you in as blind as those files did!”

Steve has a point. Damnit.

“That still doesn’t change the fact that HYDRA’s conditioning shaped me into the perfect weapon during those seventy years of captivity. I can accomplish things that no ordinary man ever could with my eyes closed and arms bound, and that’s discounting the bullet-proof metal arm-“

Bucky pauses mid-rant when he sees Steve’s’ expression. It’s not the stubborn denial or even ridiculous righteousness he had been expecting –

No, Steve looks _pensive_.

“I’m almost scared to know, punk, but what are you thinking now?”

Steve looks eager to share and Bucky instantly goes on the defensive. Whatever it is, Steve’s gonna have his mind _set_ on it.

“Well, you’re going in with incomplete information, right?” Steve asks.

Bucky eyes him warily.

“Yes.”

“And you’re not used to that. You’re more accustomed to having a plan mapped for you, then adapting to the situation during the mission.” Steve says, his voice becoming more excited.

 “Yes.”

“Well, as it so happens, I’m pretty skilled at gathering intel and developing strategies, but unable to actually implement them.”

Bucky knows what Steve’s going to suggest now and it’s such a Steve-ish plan, no thought for the danger he might be putting himself into, that Bucky wants to say no immediately. Steve cuts him off before then.

“I know you want to keep me outta danger, Buck, but think about it,” Steve insists. “This is killing two birds with one stone! Not only will we be safer if we’re partnered, but we can take down HYDRA more efficiently.”

While Bucky may hate it, Steve is _right_ about this. He may be in slightly more danger of HYDRA attack, yes, but that’s far outweighed by the comparative safety of having Bucky to defend him. Still…

“You won’t be able to stay here if you follow through with this, you know. You’ll have to sacrifice all the life you may have here – your friends, your apartment, your paintings – for a life on the lam. The life that your mom gave everything for will be gone.”

A single look at Steve’s face immediately tells Bucky that none of that matters.

“She’d be proud of me, Buck. I think you know that.”

He does.

“I do. I just want to make sure that you are absolutely positive that this is what you want.” Steve smiles up at him, unrepentant.

“I told you that I don’t regret saving you, no matter what the consequences may be. I stand by what I said – this is just a consequence.”

The strength and passion and _genuineness_ behind Steve’s words causes a knot to form in Bucky’s throat, gratitude welling up into an unstoppable wave. It’s almost exactly how he felt when he first encountered Steve’s unwavering kindness.

Bucky supposes there’s something poetic in the parallelism but decides not to think about it. Reaching in to hug Steve again is more important now.

They stand there embracing in the middle of Steve’s tiny apartment for what feels like both ages and an instant before Steve releases him, brushing some of Bucky’s hair out of his face as he does. Bucky feels his heat, and Steve laughs, turning towards what must be the bedroom and making a show of walking to it.

“I’ll go pack a bag, then.” Are Steve’s cheeks also pink?

“Alright.” Bucky’s voice is a little hoarse.

God, what a dumb pair they make.

Bucky knows they’re gonna give HYDRA hell.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

They see the newspaper walking through a Romanian marketplace eight months later.

“HYDRA’S WORST NIGHTMARE?” it proclaims above a photo of Bucky in his tac gear, metal arm shining in the sun. “THE NEW VIGILANTE, THE WINTER SOLDIER, DESTROYS FOURTH BASE IN TWO MONTHS!”

Steve turns to Bucky, smirking.

“The Winter Soldier, huh? It has a nice ring to it.” Bucky ignores him and buys the paper, flipping it open to read more on his new identity.

“’Another HYDRA base – disguised as a telemarketing company - was found destroyed in Berlin this weekend, marking the fourth HYDRA base in Europe in the past two months,’” Bucky reads. ‘”This time, though, a civilian happened to snap a photo of a man emerging from the rubble. Previously, this man was known only through the testimonies of civilians, many of whom described a man dressed in all black with a distinctive metal arm entering or leaving disguised HYDRA bases.”

“Sloppy,” Steve teases. Bucky flips him the bird and continues.

“These testimonies have been attributed to two of the three other attacks in Europe, suggesting that this ‘Winter Soldier’ isn’t just a one-time wonder. Despite this, little is known of him or his origins other than his metal arm and clear hatred of HYDRA. The Avengers - who have routinely taken down bases themselves – have not yet commented on this mysterious new figure.”

There’s nothing more to the article after that other than speculations on the origin of the Winter Soldier and his possible motivations, so Bucky folds the paper away into his bag and pulling out a plum to eat.

“There’s no mention on me, is there?” Steve asks. Bucky shoots him an annoyed look as he takes a bite out of his plum.

“I sure hope not. Part of why this whole arrangement _works_ is because no one knows about you.” Steve shrugs and move in to kiss off the juice dripping down from the corner of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky lets him.

“I know,” Steve says, breath breezing hot on Bucky’s cheek, “just wish that we didn’t have to be so secretive about it. The Avengers aren’t.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“The Avengers are sanctioned by the government. _We_ are not. ‘Sides, we’re a hell of a lot more efficient than them. There’s not a chance they could attack the disguised bases – too many risks for bad publicity.”

Steve nods, a look of pride on his face. He’d always been so proud of making a difference, especially when that meant taking actions that others would not.

“Speaking of, I finished the plans for the base in Alba Iulia. Should be simple, quick in-and-out. Easy.”

Bucky laughs, nudging Steve with his elbow.

“Says you, mister strategist. Tell me that after you have seven HYDRA pointing guns at your head because there was an extra room not mentioned in the plans.”

Steve elbows him back, laughing too.

“I haven’t gotten you killed so far, have I?”

Bucky shakes his head – morbid as the joke is, Steve hasn’t ever let him down before. The worst missions resulted in one or two gunshot wounds, and those were rare. Steve’s a brilliant tactician, an undiscovered genius - that much is undeniable.

“Nah, punk. Would never forgive you if you did.” They both laugh all the way back to the shared apartment they’ve rented for this op to lay low. Kind old ladies selling delicious plums at the market aside, Bucharest isn’t the friendliest place, so it’s best not to draw attention.

Bucky drops the groceries on the tiny table in the center of the room while Steve pulls out his plans for the attack, walking Bucky through the exact locations of guards and best ways to stay hidden. They, as a team, try to avoid unnecessary firefights – unlike the Avengers, they don’t have a world-class medical team or extra members. As Steve details Bucky’s method of returning home, a concerned look appears on his face that Bucky notices immediately. If there’s one thing Steve’s sure about, it’s his plans; he’d never forgive himself if Bucky were permanently injured or, god forbid, killed, so he makes sure to cover every possibility in detail.

“What is it, Steve?” Bucky asks.

“I think I’m going to need to revise your escape route, Bucky.”

Bucky tilts his head. It had seemed fine to him. “Why?”

“You’re famous now.” Steve must see Bucky’s flat look, so he hurriedly continues. “Though there have been whispers of the ‘Winter Soldier’ before, it was just considered a rumor then. Now, you’re in newspapers with _photos_ o _f you_ on the front page. People are going to be more on the lookout now, and though the public may like you, I doubt the government feels the same.”

“Those photos are blurry, though. They can’t fully see my face,” Bucky points out.

“Maybe, but they can see your hair, your chin, your nose, _your arm_.” Bucky glances down at his arm, which is currently covered by his henley and a glove. This normally drew no attention, but if people were looking for a likely covered metal arm, it’d stick out like a beacon.

 “You’re now significantly more likely to be flagged now that you’ve become popular enough to enter the public eye. People think they see celebrities all the time – only for us, them pointing you out could be the difference between a clean getaway and capture.”

“So do you have a new plan, then?” The question comes out slightly sassy, Bucky attempting to light the mood. Steve takes the bait and rolls his eyes.

“Of course! I’m just saying that your newfound fame is going to have to change the way we operate. As much as I know you take pride in our efficiency” – which, of course Bucky does, the sooner HYDRA is banished from the face of the earth the better – “we’re going to have to slow down or risk catching the eye of more than just the public. The last thing we need is the Avengers on our tails.”

“Because you definitely do not want to meet them, especially not Captain America.” Bucky teases.

“I respect his dedication to what is right despite his costume being a walking propaganda piece, but that does not mean I want to meet him.” Steve says, cheeks pink but clearly trying not to smile. “Besides, that’s not the issue here. The issue is that I have to buy new train tickets for a private room so that you don’t get spotted. That’s an extra fifty dollars.”

“Mmm, so it’s _my_ fault then?” Bucky says cajolingly. Steve jams a bony elbow into Bucky’s side, but he’s laughing hard enough that it doesn’t do any real damage.

“Course it is, jerk. It’s your hipster hair that’s gonna get us caught in the end,” Steve says between bouts of laughter. Bucky gasps dramatically in mock offense.

“How dare you! You better learn how to take down HYDRA bases by yourself because I am refusing to go on this op!”

“I better start training now!” Steve yells, jumping onto Bucky to mock wrestle him. Bucky lets Steve push him down and they end up sprawled on the floor in a mess of limbs, Steve’s head on his chest.

In that moment, lying there in the middle of a dingy apartment in Romania with Steve curled up half on top of him, Bucky thinks he may have finally found true happiness.

They could deal with the threat of the Avengers when the time came.

For now, despite the constant threat of HYDRA –

Bucky wouldn’t change his life for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I exist on [Tumblr](https://lilywritesstuffsometimes.tumblr.com/), please send prompts :) 
> 
> okay, so.
> 
> first off, this was actually really fun to write
> 
> secondly, this was done for the shrinkyclinks fest prompt 33: AU where The Winter Soldier is the new hotshot vigilante everyone is talking about. What people don't realise is that they're actually a unit, with Bucky as the face and brawns, while Steve does the recon and strategy.
> 
> in case you're wondering why the bulk of this fic is backstory, it's because this is actually the prologue to the full story that i didn't finish in time for the event (i actually had to get an extension so i could bulk this into a proper standalone)
> 
> i legit love this prompt so much so i am 100% ready to just go off on a sequel, so expect that at some point


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